Rings of Smoke: A disturbingly compelling crime thriller

By Diane O'Toole

Two mothers generations apart, unknown to each other. Neither has a clue of the devastation and heartbreak their actions have caused. Neither understands the damage they have done to their own offspring; one by deserting her family, one by staying. But both are the same; greedy and demanding. They both wanted more, and they pushed their husbands to the brink to get it. Rings of Smoke is a crime thriller set in 1970's northern England, where the Fallon family, recently emigrated from Ireland, now live. When the mother, Helen, leaves her husband for another man, eldest daughter Erin sets off to search for her, unaware that she has been stalked by a serial killer for the last six weeks. All Erin wants is to find her mother and bring her home. What she encounters is Leonard Fitch, an eminent surgeon with a deep, dark secret. Now, in a secluded forest ranger's lodge, Erin must fight to survive or never see her family again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Britain's Next Bestseller
• Release date: Sep 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781910565490

Diane O'Toole

Diane O'Toole was born in Manchester into a large family of seven brothers and five sisters. As a child her playground was Belle Vue, one of the largest amusement parks in Europe. She has always been known as a storyteller. As a very young girl, she developed a voracious passion for books, and read all the classics: Dickens, Eliot, Trollope, and Hardy. During her teens it was Stephen King and James Herbert, and then she got a taste of the political thriller with Daniel Silva's Moscow Rules. For Rings of Smoke, she drew on real life experiences, particularly in respect of the protagonist Erin Fallon. With stalkers, a runaway mother and abduction, she had the bones of a great story, which has since been transformed in Rings of Smoke.

Book preview

Robinson.

PROLOGUE

Lancaster, England 1945

LEONARD sat on the top step, looking down at the girls dancing in a circle. He was alone. He was always alone. Not of his choosing, that’s just the way it was and the way it had always been for as long he could remember.

Leonard Fitch is an ugly dick, doo-dah, doo-dah, they sang in unison.

Look at that face dunnit make you sick, doo-dah doo-dah day! The girls laughed hysterically. Taunting lanky Leonard Fitch was the highlight of their day. And as they ridiculed and tormented him he sat quietly, staring back at them, holding onto the thought foremost in his mind. He repeated that thought over and over in his head, you may laugh now, but I will have my day, and you will all fear the name ‘Leonard Fitch’.

It was lunchtime at Lancaster Grammar School; the time Leonard hated the most. Not because the food was dreadful and inedible. Not because he was a loner, without a friend in the world. He had grown used to the loneliness, accepted it as his lot in life, and that’s how he preferred it now. He hated it because it was the one time the boys from the Grammar and the girls from the adjoining High School mixed in the playground. It was an opportunity for those whores in the making to torment him.

His only enjoyment in life was reading. Books were his passion, and reading was where he found a release from his lonely existence. Through books, he entered different worlds, became different people, acting out roles in the theatre of his mind. His reading material included the short stories of Algernon Blackwood after he found a copy of The Listener at the bottom of his father’s wardrobe. Blackwood was one of the finest writers of ghost stories in his day, and he was also said to have been a member of The Golden Dawn, an organisation dedicated to the study and practice of the occult, something Leonard found intriguing and worthy of further investigation.

Despite his scientific leanings, he found books on fantasy a great release; a way of expanding his horizons, and nothing did that more than a good horror story, particularly those involving the brutal killing or sacrifice of young females. And if he couldn’t find that in a book he would make up his own stories, even illustrating them with crude sketches. After reading ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’, he produced a comic book depicting a young female as the prisoner, tied down to a wooden table and a giant scythe swinging back and forth, but unlike the Edgar Allan Poe classic, in his story the scythe cut through the flesh and bone, opening up the chest of the unfortunate girl.

Being a great reader helped not only with his education, but also his imagination. He was top of his year in English. Straight ‘A’s all the way, in English language and English literature. And right now he was imagining what he could … no not could, would do to these bitches, in good time.

In post war Britain, life was hard and pretty grim. Many of the children had lost their fathers during the war, but Leonard was fortunate in that respect; his father had what they called a ‘protected occupation’, which in Leonard’s eyes made his father special. Important even, like Mr. Churchill; he didn’t have to fight, and neither did his dad. According to his mother though, his father was a coward – afraid to go and do his duty.

No, it wasn’t the war that killed his father. It was his mother.

Come along Fitch! Stop daydreaming, lad! Leonard’s form teacher yelled, giving him a slap across the back of the head. The girls laughed once more as Leonard rubbed his head. He slowly rose to his feet, unfolding his six-foot frame to its full height, still stinging from the slap received from his sadistic teacher. You need to get those books out for the next lesson! he shouted, looking back over his shoulder as he strutted across the playground, the tails of his long black gown flapping around his legs.

Oh, the joys of being a Prefect. Not only did the other kids hate you, the teacher’s treat you like a slave.

Leonard glared back at the sniggering girls, and swore an oath to himself. They’ll regret this. Bitches! Every single one of them will plead and beg for me to show them mercy before I’ve finished with them.

CHAPTER ONE

Bleazedale Forrest, Cumbria, September 1976

ASUDDEN rustling in the nearby trees brought Leonard Fitch to an abrupt halt. He froze, letting the knotted end of the coarse nylon bag slide silently from his long, bony fingers. With his back to where the sound came from, he reached out, grabbed the wooden balustrade and turned slowly, not daring to make the slightest noise. His small bald head and long scraggy neck gave him the appearance of a turkey as he leaned off the edge of the porch and peered into the darkness; his beady grey eyes screwed up tight behind round rimless glasses as he strained to see into the dark.

It was just after midnight and the clear night sky was lit by a full moon, the ghostly light clinging to the mist that cloaked the land around the isolated lodge deep inside Bleazedale Forest. Fitch had searched long and hard for such a remote property and the seclusion of a dense forest in the English Lake District was exactly what he needed for his work.

He looked into the trees and beyond, staring into a blanket of black velvet. Fitch knew this part of the forest well, better, he thought, than most of the wildlife. Nothing moved. The shadows from the porch light remained still. He waited and listened, and apart from the gentle chatter of running water from a nearby stream, everywhere was silent again.

It was mid-September and the country was enjoying an Indian summer, yet as the night wore on the temperature had dipped significantly. Fitch shivered even though he was covered in sweat from his exertions. Small droplets ran down from his bald head and into his eyes, the salty moisture stinging, blurring his vision. This kind of body heat made him uncomfortable and bad-tempered. It made him think of the woman whom he loathed and despised. The woman he had nothing but contempt for; the same woman he had the most profound misfortune to have been born to. There, she was back in his head again, derailing his carefully thought out plans.

Using the palm of his hand, Fitch swiped angrily at his forehead wiping away the moisture trickling down his face, as he tried to dismiss from his mind all thoughts of his mother. She wasn’t important. Never had been. Never would be. Nothing could possibly change that. Yet, he could still hear her telling him, as a young boy, her greatest regret in life, ‘I should have crossed my legs and chocked you to death at birth!’ Shame she hadn’t carried through with it, he thought, because you’ve no idea what I have planned for you!

In addition to the regular beatings throughout his childhood and his teenage years, she abused him emotionally and mentally. Even today she was still there, taunting, tormenting and ridiculing him. If it was possible, she’d even made his life more of a living hell during her menopause years. It was her fault, all of it. Why he had to do what he was doing, why he was driven to do it and why he couldn’t stop doing it.

He pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, removed his glasses and rubbed vigorously at his eyes, before giving the thick lenses a quick wipe. He put them back on and squinted out into the darkness again – waiting for the slightest sign of movement.

He didn’t have to wait long, though. A shrill cry followed by the loud, frantic flapping of wings shattered the unearthly silence. His mother instantly dismissed from his mind, he felt a sudden sense of relief. A thin smile spread across his small uneven teeth, his eyes almost disappearing into the back of his head. The predator had its prey.

Relieved, he started to relax again and the song, that song from his miserable existence of a childhood, played along his lips as he dabbed and mopped the salty moisture from his head and neck. His confidence renewed in the knowledge that he was still alone, hidden miles from anywhere and anyone, he began humming. But still he had to remain vigilant; he would not take chances, as the humming turned to singing, soft and low.

Hands clasped behind his back, he rocked to and fro on the balls of his feet, stretching and moaning, as he tried to hum away the onset of weariness that was beginning to creep into his muscles and his mind – today had been a long day for him, but his work wasn’t quite finished – not yet.

A niggling ache in his lower back flared up again making him grimace in pain. He inhaled deeply and placed his long bony fingers against the bottom of his spine and massaged the troubled area. As he rubbed away at his pain, his humming gradually returned – the corpse lying on the decking beside him seemingly forgotten.

When it finally occurred to him why he was standing on the porch at such an ungodly hour, he looked down at the body and whispered, Time we got a move on. He kicked the sack and said, How about a little sing-song before we leave? What about your all-time favourite song, hmm? Lost your tongue have you? He lashed out again at the sack and said, I’ll lead, and you can come in on the doo-dah-doo-dah! And in a low mocking tone, he began singing, "Camptown ladies sing that song …"

He kicked repeatedly at the dead girl’s body in the sack, his fury rising and with it, his body temperature. He was sweating again and he’d already had enough of that! Saliva running down his chin, he looked down and whispered "Happy Birthday, bitch!"

Fitch took hold of the large knot and dragged the sack down the steps pulling it behind him across the damp grass – and that was just the easy part. He struggled with the dead weight of the girl, and cursed as a pain shot across his lower back causing him to stumble and almost fall headlong over the barrow as he was heaving the body onto the flat steel base. He pulled himself up slowly to his full height, taking long deep breaths in an effort to control the pain. He did this for a count of ten until the pain had subsided to a dull ache, then he turned and went back to the porch and leaned inside the entrance to the lodge, switched off the light and locked the door.

He made his way wearily towards the locked gate, took a key from his shirt pocket and released the padlock, pulling the gate open just wide enough to push the barrow and its contents out onto a path beyond the confines of the lodge. The path was on a slight incline making it easy for him to push the barrow through the narrow opening, where he stopped, closed the gate again, and put the heavy padlock back in place. Don’t take any chances Fitch old boy.

He continued on his way along the winding path, ducking as he took a sharp left under the trees and into the dense woodland beyond.

CHAPTER TWO

THE pale misty moonlight falling through the trees helped to guide Fitch back to the grave he had dug earlier that day; his battery-operated lantern held in reserve for the graveside burial. After manoeuvring his weighty cargo along the well-worn path, he couldn’t have been more relieved at arriving at the spot where he’d spent most of the morning – the trip back to the grave had taken its toll on him.

He lowered the barrow and stepped back to lean against a nearby tree, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. Sweat trickled down his back, so he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. The relief was almost instant as the cold night air swept across his naked torso, cooling him down quickly as he rolled the shirt into a ball and began drying the moisture from his face, and upper body.

Shouldn’t have left it so damn late. Wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose, if she had spent the night in the freezer. His body temperature was almost back to normal, but not his energy levels, he was tired, so he allowed his entire weight to sink against a narrow hollow in the tree as fatigue threatened to consume him and render him useless for the task ahead. He had no choice. The job had to be finished.

Rested as much as he could be, Fitch tossed his shirt on the ground beside the barrow and walked along the edge of the grave, admiring his finely honed grave digging skills for this latest victim. I must congratulate myself, he thought as he surveyed his work. Not bad at all! He paced the length and depth of the grave, mentally gauging if more work was needed. More than adequate for a small one, he thought, no animal will be sniffing around and unearthing this corpse for a free meal.

As he approached the barrow, he squinted in the semi-darkness at his watch. Half past midnight, another ten minutes or so should do it. He was eager to get back to the lodge, and the comfort of his bed.

Fitch lifted the handles high and tipped the barrow up; the sack creaked as it slid off the steel base and made a soft thud on the ground. He knelt and untied the knotted end of the sack, reached inside, and pulled the body free onto the damp earth. He held the sack high, and shook it vigorously until the remaining contents dropped out beside the corpse – the girls severed feet.

He threw the sack back into the barrow and grabbed his shirt off the ground, pulling it on as he got back to his feet. Rubbing at the dull ache at the bottom of his spine, he stared at the dead girl.

Fitch had abducted Debra Johnson on her thirteenth birthday and had ended her life just a few hours ago on what should have been a celebration for the girl and her family, the day she turned fourteen. But, following a yearlong incarceration and a series of violent and sickening punishments during her confinement, today’s birthday would be her last. It had become a ritual; Debra Johnson was not the first of his Birthday Girl victims and Fitch certainly didn’t plan on her being the last. The next one had already been selected.

Johnson’s naked body lay face down – Fitch couldn’t take his eyes from it. Ignoring the ache in his back he got down on to his knees again and began stroking the cold flesh of her backside; the action seemed to sooth and relax him. The urge to lie down and rest became overwhelming, he gave into it, and like a newborn giraffe he shuffled around on all fours and finally managed to sprawl out beside the corpse in the sour smelling damp earth.

He fidgeted for a while until he found a snug position, resting his head in the hollow of the girl’s back he stretched and yawned, clasping his hands together across the top his head, his long fingers covering his crown like a scull cap.

Fitch stared through the branches of the trees into the night sky, the weight of his body sinking into the ground; it was a wonderful experience, being able to relax. Ten minutes should do it. He sighed happily. And as he gazed into the blanket of stars flickering like candles on a far away ocean liner, he allowed his mind to wander. His thoughts strayed to the slender copper haired girl he’d seen walking along Bleaksedge Lane on his journey to the hospital. He used the route most days and she had first caught his attention two or three months ago. You’re next. All I have to do is wait; exercise a little patience for just a few more weeks, and then I’m coming for you. He smiled as he remembered the day he had obtained those vital details; the details needed to fit in with his carefully planned MO.

* * *

As with many plans, luck plays a large part, and with this particular plan, his lucky day happened to be the day Erin Fallon had been brought into the A&E department at the hospital.

Fitch had been with one of his outpatients and making his way back to his office, he spotted her. The girl was still in her gym kit, and whom he presumed was her PE teacher was telling the Triage Nurse what had happened.

She was playing netball when she clashed with an opponent, he overheard her saying. She banged her head. Smiling at Erin the teacher added, The other girl must be thick sculled; she’s fine apparently. Hardly felt a thing.

How do you feel? the nurse asked in that sympathetic manner Fitch detested, taking the girl’s hand and looking at the nasty lump forming on the side of her head.

A bit sick, she murmured, And I felt dizzy at first but it’s not so bad now.

Fitch couldn’t believe his luck, the incident and the timing, which had brought the girl to the hospital, could not have been better.

I’ll take over nurse, he said, asserting his authority and position. I don’t have any more appointments until this afternoon. Plenty of time to deal with this young ladies injury.

The nurse handed over the case notes to the eminent surgeon and turned to Erin, saying reassuringly, You’re in good hands, Erin. This is Mr. Fitch. He’s the best in dealing with head injuries.

* * *

Whilst examining Erin Fallon’s injury, as a matter of course, he had taken her name, address and most important for his current killing spree, her date of birth. The 6th November, a little over six weeks away.

The dead girl beneath him had been forgotten as he chewed on his lower lip and considered the only problem he foresaw. How would he abduct Erin Fallon? That, he thought, is going to need a lot more planning than the others. They had been easy to take – but this one? Whenever he had seen her she was never alone. Always with a long-haired youth who she appeared to be flirting with, throwing her head back and tossing her long copper curls from side to side as she laughed at, what he assumed, would have been smutty innuendo.

Fitch turned onto his side and whispered into the dead girl’s ear, "You should have shown me at least a degree of respect, whore! You didn’t, did you? None of you did. All you ever did was torment and ridicule me. I warned you didn’t I?"

With a curious expression, he turned and gazed along the length of her body. He slapped her backside hard; his fingers tingled from the force of the slap. The pain thrilled him at the same time, so he slapped her again and again until his fingertips burned.

* * *

Debra Johnson had spent her fourteenth birthday bound and gagged on a hospital gurney in a small windowless room at the back of the lodge, where Fitch had abused her at every available opportunity. Her final day with Fitch fell on her birthday and, as birthdays should be, he intended to make it special. A day she would remember for the rest of her life, well, what she had left of her life, which he planned to be just a matter of hours, rather than days, weeks or months. She had served her purpose and it was time to move on to the next one.

Before gagging the girl, Fitch had begun by removing her teeth with pliers; the pain was excruciating for her and much to Fitch’s annoyance, she blacked out. Fitch left her and went down the hall to the kitchen where he filled a large pan with ice-cold water. This should do the trick. I don’t have all day! Other tasks to be dealing with! He went back to the room; the girl remained unconscious. Fitch stood beside her and poured the entire contents of the pan over her face.

Wakey, wakey, Miss Johnson! he shouted. The girl came to, terrified, choking and crying as she tried to pull herself up off the gurney. Fitch grabbed a roll of gaffer tape from the metal tray beneath and tore off a long strip, slapping it across the girl’s bloodied mouth. Not satisfied with one strip, he applied two more for good measure.

He picked up the pliers again and pondered what he should do next by way of further punishment. She stared back at him with terror and pain filled eyes. He cocked his head on one side and said, "This is going to hurt – a lot!" He grabbed her nose between the pliers, twisting and tugging viscously; he had to resist the urge to break it, because that particular punishment he always saved for much later. He put the pliers down and reached for a clear polythene bag from the metal trolley at his side. Without hesitating, he pulled the bag over the girl’s head, holding it firmly in place, long enough to cause as much distress and suffering as possible. Her fingernails tore at the vinyl covering on the gurney; her body convulsed as she struggled for air.

Almost finished, he said in a cheerful manner. She was barely conscious. He could hear a low wheezing and gurgling, as tears still rained down the side of her face. He glanced at the clock on the windowsill; her brain would start to die within four to six minutes through lack of oxygen. He couldn’t delay any longer what was his most sickening act of all. And like the other girls before her, he wanted her conscious for what he was about to do, so he removed the bag and tossed it into a bin.

Fitch took a small electric surgical saw from the trolley, walked across the room, and plugged it in. He went back to the girl, and stared into her eyes, seeing just a flicker of life remaining. He knew she had enough oxygen left in her lungs and her blood for her to be aware of the pain he was about to subject her to. He flicked the switch and the saw buzzed into action. He moved to the other end of the gurney, put on a pair of large plastic glasses, and covered his mouth with a surgical mask. As the blade cut through the thin flesh of her ankle, Debra’s eyes bulged almost out of their sockets; her body tensed as she arched her back, and then fell limp.

Debra Johnson died before he had finished removing the first foot, but he continued oblivious to the fact until he had completed the amputation of both feet. Once that job was done, he lit a small acetylene torch and cauterised the stumps to stem the bleeding. He picked up the amputated feet and placed them either side of her head, the toes pointing towards the girl’s ears; he stood back and admired the symmetry. The image was truly hideous, but with that came beauty. A hint of a smile danced in his eyes as she stared vacantly back at him, her face taking on a familiar appearance he couldn’t quite place. That’s it, ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch. Wonderful!

He stepped out of the room and returned a couple of minutes later with a Polaroid camera. He hummed quietly as he loaded the photographic paper and positioned himself at the foot of the gurney, considering the best angle for the shot. The picture had to have a harrowing effect, to traumatise and strike horror and revulsion in the mind of the girl’s mother – a sight indelibly etched, never to be forgotten.

As a child Fitch had been fascinated by the artwork of John Newton Howitt, whose graphic drawings had adorned the front covers of American pulp magazines brought over by the same soldiers who gave those evil bitches that song. He used to imagine the girls in similar ‘Damsel in Distress’ poses, being tortured by some crazed madman, or thrown from a speeding train, preferably both.

But even Howitt would not have attempted such a composition as this.

From the position he was to take the photograph he had determined that, for full impact, the girl’s head needed to be raised several inches off the gurney. He wanted her dead eyes to stare straight into the camera. He hurried from the room again and was back in seconds with a thick hardback book. He grabbed her hair, yanked her head up and placed the book at the base of her neck and went back to the foot of the gurney. The desired effect was achieved; her head positioned a good few inches above her shoulders, her eyes staring blindly back at Fitch. Excellent.

Satisfied, he moved to the end of the gurney and took a photograph of his work. Sixty seconds later, the picture emerged. He took hold of the corner and waved the photographic paper back and forth until the image was fully developed. He held the picture out to the dead girl. Here, take a look at this. Look! Aren’t you a sight? I have to admit, I’m becoming quite the creative photographer!

He kissed the picture, making a loud ‘mmmwwwaaaaa’ sound. Even in his warped mind, he had to admit the image was horrific and twisted. He couldn’t wait to put the photograph inside the belated birthday card and mail it to the girl’s mother. How I would love to be a fly on the wall when you open the envelope and find out what I’ve done to your little precious.

As a final twist, he had forced the girl to address the envelope to her mother a few days earlier. This had become his signature on the killing of the last three victims, all part of his carefully planned modus operandi.

* * *

His thoughts returned to the job in hand. He stood and went back to the barrow and lit the lantern. With the dim light